


Only a Small Fear

by deathwailart



Series: Rhiannon Amell [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash February, Gift Giving, Implied Relationships, Magic, Open Relationships, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gifts and shapeshifting practice between Morrigan and Rhiannon before the Blight ends, when Morrigan knows she can't stay and that she was never meant to fall in love with the Warden.</p>
<p>you had only a small fear<br/>and the fear was not for yourself<br/>but for her…</p>
<p>- Anne Sexton, There You Were</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only a Small Fear

"Is this level of gift giving common?" Morrigan asks after Rhiannon appears with a flourish, telling Morrigan to close her eyes and hold out her hands. Not that she's complaining, not exactly, only there have only ever been practical gifts from her mother in the past, practical to the point that they could be described as necessities rather than gifts with only Flemeth's style of parenting rendering them such. Rhiannon gives pretty things, delicate things, interesting things; she's the sort who remembers a wistful comment or looks and thinks 'I bet so-and-so would like this' and she's right every time.  
  
"Does it upset you?" Rhiannon asks in return even as she's pressing a kiss to the side of Morrigan's neck, fingers busy with fastening a many-stranded golden rope of a necklace into place.  
  
"Should it? Shall I guess your intent? Perhaps you mean to beguile us utterly then feed us to the Darkspawn."  
  
"I like it when you call me beguiling," Rhiannon says with a smile, "but the truth is very boring compared to that: you're people I care about and I want to do something nice for you when everything is so terrible, when all the world seems so very dark and we might die at any moment."  
  
Morrigan doesn't know what to say because Rhiannon means it and friendship was strange enough, unexpected but not wholly unwelcome. This however...well, at least she's better at covering her feelings compared to Zevran and, were it anyone other than Rhiannon, it would be laughable, that the two people she loves struggle to ever say as much back to her. "So what of Alistair and Wynne then?" She asks at last when the silence grows and Rhiannon steps away as if to sit by the fire but it's more like a tactical withdrawal, unwilling to press too far too fast should she lose what she has.  
  
"Bribes," Rhiannon replies without even pausing to think about it, no hesitation. "You can't be angry with a woman, a mage or a Grey Warden bearing gifts and I," she sits up tall from where she's tending the fire with her own flames, "am all three."  
  
Morrigan laughs at that, fingers tracing the strands of her necklace and she digs through her pack for that carefully wrapped mirror, the gold pristine, rapidly warming to her touch. She doubts her mother could have suspected that one of the two Wardens she saved would give her such a gift. The necklace is beautiful when she gets a look at it, the same shade as the mirror and her eyes, standing out against her pale skin and dark hair and clothes but that's hardly surprising given that Rhiannon loves pretty things and has a good eye for just the right sort of thing for all those who favour them. Little trinkets were rewards in the Circle, brought from visitors and of course the best apprentices were rewarded most so Rhiannon had comforts the others could only dream of, hidden away and guarded almost jealously. Away from the Circle, Rhiannon can finally indulge and return the kindness of those strangers from Orlais and the Free Marches and Nevarra. Even with all that goes on around her, she manages to brighten even the blackest of days, making it look so simple that it takes the breath away.  
  
Sometimes, in the right light, wearing the right robes, Morrigan can forget for a moment that Rhiannon isn't some Chasind priestess of old.  
  
"Did you come just to bestow baubles or do you have something else in mind?" Morrigan asks when she's studied the necklace long enough, the mirror wrapped up and tucked away again.  
  
"I found a spot not too far from here when I went hunting with Leliana, I thought we could get away from camp and do a spot of shapeshifting?"  
  
"Will we be returning to camp?" It's a sensible thing to ask because there have been nights where they've left and haven't bothered with the tents, milder than this to be certain, but the night air doesn't bother Morrigan and Rhiannon has mostly adjusted to it by now and there is something to be said for racing in the night then rolling around in the grass before curling up as wolves or foxes or bears until morning and strolling back to camp with matching contented lazy smiles.  
  
"Yes, I could just about feel the Darkspawn. I'd rather not risk it if we decided to stay and make too much noise, not when our camps have always been free of them thus far."  
  
"How long will our good fortune last, I wonder."  
  
Rhiannon looks away, the light of the fire casting long shadows on her face, hitting her cheekbone just so that it turns her into a gaunt and awful thing. "We're doing far better than I thought we ever would, we'll be safe a little longer. We're getting close after all." She sighs forcefully, as if in one breath she can expel all her worries and troubles and doubts and set them free into the night air. "Let me leave a couple of things with Zevran and we can set off."  
  
"Sten has first watch tonight?" Morrigan retrieves her stave when Rhiannon nods, taking a moment to remove all the jewellery she's been gifted, precious little things she doesn't want to lose. "I will tell him lest they lead a search party and see something that blinds them."  
  
Rhiannon just laughs, walking back to the main camp, past Leliana tuning her lute, past Wynne who looks up from her book to give them a look of disapproval. "I think Zevran and I have inflicted all the scarring and blinding, all they can do with us is speculate."  
  
"Alistair in particular is likely to believe that the evil maleficar witch of the wilds is corrupting you with blood magic and other foul secrets the Chantry has sought to stamp out."  
  
There's a snort before Rhiannon speaks, glancing over at him as they approach where Zevran sits sharpening his knives. "Well he _would_ add two and two and come up with twenty-two, wouldn't he?"  
  
They both laugh, Alistair's head jerking in their direction before he looks away with a scowl, eyes following Morrigan as she crosses the camp to speak with Sten, the qunari merely folding his arms and wondering when he should expect them back. She watches Rhiannon from across the fire once Sten is satisfied the other mage grabbing her stave before kneeling to murmur something to Zevran that makes him laugh. There aren't many rules with the three of them, Zevran only ever wanting them to be happy and usually it is up to Rhiannon to decide who she wishes to be with. Morrigan still prefers more solitude than Rhiannon who is accustomed to a life where there were always so many people around her all the time but she and Zevran can always say to one another or to Rhiannon that they would like her company if there are other plans already existing. Then there are times where Rhiannon wants to be alone, usually after nightmares, sitting by the fire with only her hound for company. It works and there's little reason for them to question anything even though others might question everything. She turns away when Rhiannon kisses the elf goodbye in the process of handing over her jewellery for safekeeping. They always try not to intrude on private moments because they both know how Rhiannon values her newly found privacy when it comes to more or less everything, especially with moments like these that don't have to be stolen in the darkest of corners unless she wishes it. It's why she and Morrigan go to Morrigan's tent when they want time together or somewhere else entirely, unwilling to put up with an audience; two mages together is very different to a mage and a rogue even if Zevran is an Antivan Crow who was hired to end her life. The three of them don't have the same concept of shame over sex that most have but all the same, Morrigan doesn't want the others to hear and see the way Rhiannon and Zevran sometimes do.  
  
"Ready?" She asks when the other woman appears at her side, Rhiannon nodding and taking Morrigan's hand in hers. "Then lead on my friend."  
  
It's rare to walk even a few steps in silence, no chatter and no sudden attacks and Morrigan savours it, idly rubbing her thumb across Rhiannon's hand as she guides them in the dark, through the wooded area where she and Leliana went hunting for the slim pickings Alistair boiled into a tasteless grey mulch. Even Flemeth's idea of cooking (often so bloody you expected it to attempt to leap off the plate) was better than the results of leaving Alistair in charge but they all agreed to take their turn. Despite leading, Morrigan helps Rhiannon through the undergrowth, far more used to it than a young woman who gained her freedom less than a year ago. There's running water close, probably feeding the pool they all bathed in earlier and whatever beasts remain that are untainted by the Blight were probably drawn to it and she can picture the bard with her bow ready from the cover of the trees. There's a shelter they step into, a strange circular clearing and the trees are so old she expects them to come to life as the sylvans do. There was power here once, they can both feel something lingering in the air from a time long ago, Tevinters perhaps or one of Ferelden's native tribes who used this place for rituals and ceremonies. Small wonder Rhiannon wished to practice her shapeshifting here when she can draw on that to aid her.  
  
"No Darkspawn," she confirms after a moment of careful pacing and silence before she amends her statement. "Well, no more than earlier, just a faint tingle."  
  
"So no ambush? Tis fortunate."  
  
"You don't fancy being caught by a hurlock with your arse out?" Rhiannon teases, kicking off her boots. Nudity isn't required for this but when Rhiannon is practicing it seems to help her, likely because she's an adult learning and not a child like Morrigan was, Rhiannon possessing a mind that puts blocks in her way over the oddest of things.  
  
"Oh but of course, it takes many things to defeat a Blight, does it not?"  
  
"Try telling that to Alistair, if it's our new strategy it'd make him the least Wardenly unless the shade of red he turned scared them off."  
  
Morrigan laughs but her nose still wrinkles. "Please refrain from speaking of the oaf when you're undressing."  
  
Rhiannon kisses her, naked from the waist up with her robes bunched awkwardly at her hips and for a moment Morrigan strongly considers throwing caution to the wind and pushing Rhiannon down to the grass because tents are crowded and they can rarely afford to stay at taverns and inns, not when Loghain still hunts them. Rhiannon is something to behold when she's naked in the moonlight, when she almost seems to glow and tips her head back without a care in the world and Morrigan isn't averse to seeking her pleasures in the wilds. But Rhiannon wants to practice and Morrigan won't tolerate anyone being less than their best at something she's taught so she strips too and stretches, relaxing her body and getting used to the nip in the air. Winter hasn't left them yet, slow in coming with the stain that spreads out across the sky to shield the Darkspawn from the sun.  
  
"You should try the spider again," she suggests once their clothes lie in neat bundles, "not all your legs were equal or convincing, and the swarm."  
  
"I hate the swarm," Rhiannon mutters with a scowl of disgust. "One gust of wind and bits of me will be scattered for miles!"  
  
"You cannot think like that, you know that as soon as you end the spell you will be entirely you again and one would think that a mage Warden would remember that magic requires sacrifice."  
  
"It's still..." She pauses, wrapping her arms about herself, "there's still so much to learn but I feel like I need to _unlearn_ just as much at the same time."  
  
"The rules of magic matter, even one such as I cannot deny and Flemeth taught me well indeed but your Circle comes from the Chantry, those narrow little minds dictating what is and is not allowed according to what allows them to rest their heads on their pillows at night with only pleasant dreams of how well they protect and guide their flock." Morrigan has perhaps never been so delighted as when she heard Rhiannon's criticisms of the Circle, hardly expecting it when she voiced how trapped she felt, how the Chant of Light was always dictated to her. It's a source of tension between her and Wynne, Morrigan only encouraging, selfish though it may be.  
  
"Sometimes I feel as though I never truly learned how to use my magic until the time I left, it was always control and that's important, you need control more than ever on the field of battle but it was always about being good, not being feared," Rhiannon admits, shaking her long black hair back from her face, arms stretched high above her head as she rises up on her tiptoes. "Enough chatter, I want to start with a wolf, I know I can do that."  
  
"By all means." Morrigan gestures for her to begin, watching with a critical eye as Rhiannon closes her eyes and takes a breath, the transformation beginning.  
  
The wolf is one of Rhiannon's best, up there with a sleek black crow, her skin rippling as in the blink of an eye she shrinks and grows and shapes herself anew. She's almost as fast as Morrigan but unlike summoning flames or ice there's a moment where Rhiannon has to tell herself to do it, the magic too new even now to be instinctive. Impulsively, Morrigan shifts too, taking a short run as a wolf bursts from where she once stood and it seems the most natural thing in the world to circle Rhiannon then race into the woods, the other mage following through the trees.  
  
So it comes to pass that two black wolves lope through the woods, their hot breath fogging the chill air of a Ferelden night, so dark they could be nothing more than shadows. A buck startles when they burst out from the undergrowth, his white tail flashing as he bounds away from him though neither of the wolves seem to care. The larger one with golden eyes darts ahead of the blue-eyed one, daring her to keep up the chase and Morrigan rarely feels as alive, as free as she does in such moments, all the sights and sounds and smells bright and sharp, crisp, like biting into an apple not quite ripe yet. Two heads tip back and a howl, long and low, sounds, a warning to anything that might come too close before they emerge in a clearing, sniffing at the air before their skin ripples. Rhiannon staggers as she always does but she's smiling so wide it must hurt, Morrigan's heart racing, both laughing and shivering now they aren't covered in thick fur and Morrigan allows Rhiannon to pull her close for a messy kiss because they're laughing so hard they can't stop, her palm pressed to Rhiannon's ribs to feel her heart thumping wildly beneath her palm.  
  
"You were wasted in that dreary prison," she tells Rhiannon when they part, pulling her closer and down to the grass, lesson be damned. "You should always have had this."  
  
Rhiannon steals another kiss. "Would it have been like this? Running in the night? Flying?"  
  
"Every night," Morrigan vows. _I would have taught you all my secrets_ , she thinks but doesn't say because this is dangerous as it is and it won't last, it can't. Friendship and sisterhood, that should have been it, she's here for a reason she cannot divulge and yet she wouldn't trade this for the world though she can't give her all the same words that Zevran tentatively offers. At least he'll stay when Morrigan is gone, she can feel that in her bones. So she kisses her again, pushing Rhiannon so she lies flat on her back, staring up at the stars twinkling overheard.  
  
"I'll always be so grateful for this," Rhiannon murmurs, fingers sliding up Morrigan's sides from her hips to beneath her breasts, goosebumps following in their wake. "This is more than I ever thought I would have, I never thought I'd be so free. Alive. If I'd always known this then I'd never turn back, I would have run, outrun every single thing that wanted to lock me up. How can I ever repay you for this?"  
  
Morrigan doesn't mean to say what she says but something twists painfully in her chest as she looks down at Rhiannon, the flush on her cheeks spreading down her neck to her heaving chest, hair dampened with the same sweat that makes her glow. "Live gloriously," she tells her.  
  
She's quick to return to the lesson after the slip, hauling Rhiannon up, her tongue harsh as she corrects mistakes but Rhiannon still smiles when they're done, wobbling from the lack of mana because she's lived around too many Templars to be comfortable with gulping down lyrium constantly. Morrigan has to help her dress, has to help her back to camp where she lies curled in Morrigan's tent with a contented smile on her face, her hand seeking Morrigan's in the dark.  
  
It will be hard to give this up and she can only hope that Rhiannon will accept the last gift she plans to offer when they reach the end of the road.  


* * *

  
  
The Frostbacks seem even colder at this time of year than they did a few months ago when they went seeking aid. She is careful not to be seen, to draw her hood close to her face as she walks through a market renewed with the first of Bhelen's reforms taking place, so many dwarves calling out about their wares, their crafts, how fine they all are. Her belly is a barely there curve yet when she places her hand upon it she smiles, thinking of Rhiannon alive, Rhiannon in Denerim where they laud her as the Hero of Ferelden. She buys what she needs and moves on quickly lest she be recognised. They already tell tales of the brave hero and all those who fought at her side and Morrigan must disappear, the ring such a little thing to leave Rhiannon with when she takes so much.  
  
Once she is alone, the wind tearing at her as if to dig into the marrow of her bones, the snow close to blinding she stops and sighs, rubbing her belly.  
  
"Let me tell you of your mother, child," she says and starts from the very beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly references [In the Mire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1761339) at the very end.


End file.
